


Paperwhites

by Adarog (RembrandtsWife)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Flowers, Hurt/Comfort, Terminal Illnesses, dying character, pleasure - Freeform, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-01
Updated: 2008-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/Adarog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sex doesn't make the pain go away, but Joyce is determined to make things last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paperwhites

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Giles Hurt/Comfort Ficathon, to a prompt from [](http://sahiya.insanejournal.com/profile)[**sahiya**](http://sahiya.insanejournal.com/). A sequel to my earlier G/Joyce "Chrysanthemums". Thanks to [](http://antennapedia.insanejournal.com/profile)[**antennapedia**](http://antennapedia.insanejournal.com/) for beta.

The sex doesn't make the headaches go away. Nothing does that, no matter how much medication she takes--and she won't take the maximum dosage, no matter what. Not even if she cries. But sex with Rupert does something that the medication can't do; it makes her forget the pain. The pleasure of lovemaking blocks out the pain, for a little while, and Joyce forgets how much it hurts. Until he's gone, and the pain comes back as bad as ever.

Even though the pain comes back, she craves it--the sex, the touch, the tenderness, the feel and smell of Rupert. He comes by as often as he can, bringing flowers, still, and tea, pastries, silly mystery novels on tape, but it isn't often enough, and there isn't always time for sex. They don't talk about it in private, but she knows that the conflict with Glory is getting worse by the day, no one knows what's going on, and both her daughters look haunted. She knows it's her illness that haunts them as much as anything else.

Today, however, there is time. Time to make a pot of tea, eat chocolate croissants, and admire the bowl of paperwhites Rupert brought, already in bloom. Her appetite comes and goes, but today she is hungry for the taste of buttery pastry, honey, and chocolate. There is time for Rupert to draw her a hot bath enhanced with her favorite bath salts, scented with bergamot, ylang ylang, and ginger; time for him to sit beside her and hold her hand as she lazes in the water. The heat, the salts, the rich essential oils are blissfully soothing, but her head still hurts, and she can't help wishing she had bubbles to hide the slow wasting of her figure. The soft little curve of belly below her navel is almost flat now; her ribs are showing. She looks up at Rupert, and his expression is distant, his face hard as a blade. When he glances at her, he smiles, tenderly, and kisses her hand. She knows what he was thinking about. She can't blame him. She's worried for Buffy, for Dawn, for all of them. And for herself.

He helps her get out of the tub, dries her off, holds her wrap as she slides thin arms into the sleeves. She fumbles a little for the hairbrush and hopes he doesn't notice. "The paperwhites are so lovely, Rupert. Would you bring them into the bedroom?"

He looks delighted at her simple request. He darts out to move the flowers, and so he doesn't see the effort it takes for her to peel off the turban and brush out her hair. She manages to finish the job and meet him in the bedroom, where the paperwhites are waiting on the vanity, before the mirror. He would never admit that he put them there to mask a reflection he knows disturbs her; when she looks at him looking at her, she sees only his pleasure in her, not the repulsion from her illness that she so often feels.

Rupert gathers Joyce close, letting her feel how well they still fit together. His chest is solid under her head; his hands span the small of her back. He can kiss the top of her head as if she's a little girl, yet she doesn't have to raise her head very far to ask for a different kind of kiss. One hand slides under the damp hair at the nape of her neck, and the taste of his mouth begins to make her forget.

She lies down still wearing her robe and watches him strip. He is quick, efficient, comfortable with his body, scars and all--and he has many more scars than most men his age. She knows them all, now, and some of the stories behind them. Some, he won't tell. She no longer wonders if he ever will.

He lies down with her and gathers her close again, resuming their kiss. Rupert is a very good kisser, good enough to make Joyce relax and sink into the moment, as though they were teenagers and were going to snog (as he says) all night, nothing else to do. He's still kissing her when his hand slips into her robe, fondling a breast still warm from the bath, the nipple peaking under his touch. She lets him push back the thin satin of the robe, baring her for his fingers, his mouth. His lips wander down her throat, along her collarbone (too sharp), across her breastbone, to latch on to the other nipple. Groaning, Joyce rolls onto her back and lets Rupert have his way. The sweetness wells up from nipples that are still sensitive, breasts that are still hungry for touch, and begins to wipe out the throbbing black spot in her brain.

He moves across her, holds her down, body against body, still torturing her breasts with pleasure. He is large, strong, warm, hairy, masculine. Under his weight she feels delicate, fragile, but in a good way; it's perfectly normal that he can hold her down, that he can pin her wrists so she can't push him away, cover her legs with his own so that all her writhing ends up holding him closer, caught between her thighs. Laughing under his breath, Rupert slides down and nuzzles his way into her cunt, teasing her open with small darting licks. Her breath catches in her throat, and she laughs, too, as the first hints of orgasm sparkle inside her, pushed by his knowing tongue. He strokes her up and down with a finger that slides through and spreads her wetness. "So sweet for me." He licks his lips. "Mm, Joyce...."

He bends his head and pushes her over the edge, as he's done so many times, and she arches her back as the sweetness explodes and the pain is gone, is gone.

She nestles in his arms for a little bit, after, but not too long, not long enough to let all the sweetness fade away. He turns her onto her side and slides between her legs, smooth and hard, warm inside her, and teases her clit with his fingers. He doesn't even have to move, this way; he can kiss her neck and shoulder, tease her clit, her breasts, make her move, make her come, all the while murmuring in her ear how beautiful she is, how sweet. When he comes, at last, he gasps and wraps his arms around her middle, presses forward; she sighs, deeply, when he relaxes.

She only realizes that she fell asleep because she wakes, alone. Her robe is laid across the foot of the bed; the covers have been drawn up around her. The room is dim now, sunset light slanting to the floor, and in the dimness, the pain creeps back, the black thing growing in her head. Slowly Joyce puts back the covers, sits up, gets to her feet. She reaches for her robe, then thinks better of it, and gropes for the motherly, terrycloth robe on the chair. She wraps herself in motherliness, shuffles to the bathroom, and gets a small cup of water which she carries back to the bedroom, one hand pressed to her temple, determined to water the paperwhites and make them last as long as they can.


End file.
